


Don't Know How to Let You Go

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-05
Updated: 2006-08-05
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:46:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8701615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: wound care, angst, make-up sex, angst, make-up sex, angst, comfort sex (Did I mention the sex?)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Don’t Know How to Let You Go   
Author: merepersiflage  
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean  
Rating: NC-17  
Category: angst and smut  
Word Count: 7,000  
Spoilers: through Shadow  
Summary: wound care, angst, make-up sex, angst, make-up sex, angst, comfort sex (Did I mention the sex?)  
Notes/Warnings: incest--of course, language, graphic sex  
AN:Another Post-“Shadow” fic, I know. How can we help it when they give us such fodder? Thanks to [ ](http://acostilow.livejournal.com/profile)[**acostilow**](http://acostilow.livejournal.com/) for the beta.   
  
  
  
An hour after sunrise, Dean yielded to Sam’s argument that slashed faces would be a deterrent in future efforts to scam or charm information from people. That and the fact that the gash over Sam’s ribs hadn’t stopped bleeding and his breaths were coming shorter and tighter. The rips in his cheek had to be killing him.   
  
They dragged their bleeding bodies into an emergency room to max out Cyrus Hedgepeth’s credit card.   
  
“Ah, a friend with a pet tiger. Tiger got a little cranky,” Dean explained to the horrified face of the triage nurse. “The police already took care of it,” he added as the nurse reached for the phone. “Or we wouldn’t be here.” Dean offered a wink and gritted his teeth in pain. “Make sure you catch it on the news later.”  
  
The nurse smiled. Thank god his wink still worked. “I think Dr. Fitzgerald’s on call. He’s one of our best plastic surgeons.”   
  
Dean tried to return the smile but it hurt too much. He just wanted to hurry things along. Until they were back in fighting shape, Dean wanted as much distance between them and Chicago as he could get.   
  
“Do him first,” Dean told the doctor when he arrived.   
  
The doctor wanted to sedate them both, but Dean insisted that at least one of them stay conscious enough to drive. As soon as he was stitched up, they were getting in the car and not stopping until they’d crossed a half dozen states, preferably into one where you could get a Butterscotch Krimpet TastyKake.   
  
Dean told Sam he was getting morphine and that was it. Sam looked in his eyes and showed enough sense to shut up for once. Dean sat on the edge of the bed next to Sam’s and watched the doctor work, watched his brother fade away into silly grins as the drug took effect.   
  
“You’re gonna have to let me go my own way.”   
  
And just how the fuck do I do that, Sammy?   
  
Sam was telling the nurses and the doctor a particularly filthy joke that even Dean had never heard before. They all seemed to enjoy it, but Dean decided he’d better stay out of Sam’s range of vision before the sight of his brother inspired the kind of conversation that would probably upset the diligent ER team of the Columbus Medical Center.  
  
But the nurse was now holding Sam’s jaw still so the doctor could work, and Dean was thrilled with the temporary gag. Usually the only way to get a silly Sam to shut up was . . . he forced that thought down deep.   
  
When it was his turn, he stripped off his shirts so he could get his shoulder and forearm done, too. Mr. Hedgepeth had a pretty high credit limit.   
  
Sam looked at him from his propped position in the neighboring bed and his eyes glittered with something besides just the high from the drug. Dean pursed his lips in warning, but Sam just watched him, the sexy lashed blink and the need-you look making Dean six kinds of miserable.   
  
Dr. Fitzgerald stared at the just-scabbed burn on Dean’s upper chest, and Dean remembered why he hated having to resort to professional care. Too many goddamn questions.   
  
“That’s a nasty one. It’s probably too late to keep it from scarring.”  
  
“Yeah, um, curling iron.”   
  
Sam’s cheek was still numb so he couldn’t smirk, but he raised his eyebrows and mouthed, “Dork.”  
  
“You certainly lead an adventurous life.”   
  
“Not really. Just, ah, been a bad month.”  
  
This time Sam snorted. Between the truth-serum peril of a stoned Sam and the need to get more distance between themselves and Chicago, Dean could feel his shoulder blades itch with impatience.   
  
The doc filled a bag with ointments, meds, and instructions for follow-up care, and they were on their way in less than two hours.   
  
Dean managed another five hours before fatigue threatened to impair his driving, and pulled them into the Dew Drop Inn, just over the Virginia-North Carolina border. Too far south for TastyKakes, but pretty damn far from Chicago.   
  
As soon as they laid a three-inch thick salt line, they slept for two days.   
  
Dean woke to feel a hand sliding along his side and over his hip. Adrenalin flooded his system, and his hand closed on the knife under his pillow before his brain recognized the smell, the weight, and the touch. Sam.   
  
Too drained physically and emotionally to use a flat surface for anything but rest, they’d crashed in separate beds, bodies needing space to heal, space where no careless elbow would find a fresh bruise. Now Sam had crossed the space between their beds, apparently ready to check on the extent of his recovery. Without anything useful to do, Dean’s adrenalin decided to help pump his blood south, Sam’s caressing thumb on his hipbone just too familiar a stimulus to ignore.   
  
Dean rolled as far away as he could get without falling off the bed. Sam must’ve decided he was moving away to make room for him on the bed because he followed, pressing all that lean muscle into Dean’s back, ass and legs. And Dean wasn’t the only one whose blood was running south. Sam’s erection burned against his thigh.   
  
Sam’s breath tickled the back of his neck, and Dean groaned. “Come on, Sammy, just ’cause you woke up in the middle of a wet dream there’s no need to bother me. I’m still too tired.”  
  
“Wasn’t a wet dream. I was just watching you sleep. This’ll help you sleep even better.”  
  
“I’m not in the mood.”  
  
Sam’s hand dropped down to brush his swelling cock. “That’s not what your dick says.”  
  
“Yeah? Well, maybe I’m using my upstairs brain right now. Get off me.”  
  
Sam jerked away from him, and Dean clenched his teeth against the urge to call him back until his weight lifted from the bed. He heard the rustle of clothes.   
  
“I’m gonna see what I can find to eat. You want some Midol or something?”  
  
“Fuck you.” It was as automatic as breathing.   
  
There was that pissy huff that only Sam could make. “Yeah, tried that.” And then the door opened.   
  
“Wait, Sam, take—”  
  
Take what? A gun? Holy water? Another flare? Who knew what was could damage whatever was after them now? The door slammed shut before he could finish his sentence anyway.   
  
Son of a fucking bitch. Dean vaulted off the bed and struggled into some clothes just in time to hear the Impala’s engine fire up. Fuck. Now he was wide awake, with his body still one big bruise and sporting a boner that showed no signs of going away even as he sat there and worried about Sam out on his own. This was what he got for trying to have a deep conversation: Expressing Your Needs to a Loved One. Yeah, thanks, Oprah.   
  
  
Sam’s legs carried him up and down the aisles of the convenience store, but he wasn’t really looking for anything. Dean had never before rejected a specifically sexual invitation from him before. Hell, he never even turned down an opportunity to talk about sex. And he’d flirt with a traffic light if it blinked at him.  
  
The slanting rays of the sun hit his eyes as he rounded the end of an aisle. Daylight was fading away. Sam filled his arms with some of the processed crap Dean lived on and carried it to the counter. It had seemed the perfect thing to do, storming out after being kicked out of Dean’s bed for the first time in his life, but now that the sun was setting again, he needed to get back to him. They needed to have each other’s backs when whatever the hell was brewing went down. He should never have left him alone, no matter how much of a prick he was being.   
  
Exactly why Dean was being a prick hit him the moment his ass hit the front bench of the Impala. He’d told him he wanted to leave again. There was that rush of thinking it might finally be over, that his life might actually be his own again and he’d just blurted it out. He knew Dean thought it was going to be like when he was eighteen, all drama and cutting himself off from him again. He hadn’t meant that, just that he wasn’t going to live his life as one big adrenalin rush. And there was no well in hell he was going back to hunting with Dad and Dean, third man in line, taking orders from everybody.   
  
He wanted to race back and explain, and he had to force himself to stay under the speed limit, to stop at the fifty-two stop signs between him and his brother. Getting stopped in a small town for a traffic violation wasn’t going to help anything. He remembered how gut tearing it had felt to think that Dean might want to stay in Missouri with Cassie, to know Dean might just cut him loose. And now he’d just thrown that feeling back at Dean—again.   
  
Sweet incense hit his nose as soon as he opened the door, and his heart jumped until he saw the room in order, heard the shower running. Dean must have censed protection symbols around the room.   
  
He set the bag on the table and crossed to the bathroom door.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Nothin’ ”  
  
Sam began to rehearse the conversation in his brain, trying to get things to come out the right way this time, so Dean would know he wasn’t just going to run off the second the hunt was over.   
  
But before he could get very far, the water shut off, and Dean stepped out, probably wasting every single towel in the room. One towel tied over his hips, one over his shoulders and one of his ridiculous turbans on his head, and he still dripped all over the carpet as he strutted over to the table   
  
“I’m starving. You better have gotten something besides a granola bagel and a chai latte.”  
  
“They don’t make—” and he caught Dean’s grin “Never mind.”  
  
“They’ve got pretty good cable.” Dean sat on the edge of his bed and tore open some kind of processed meat stick that probably had a longer half-life than plutonium. He sprawled back against the pillows and picked up the remote and began demonstrating how many channels he could flip through in two seconds. One naked leg swung off the side of the bed, making the towel at his waist gape just a little.   
  
All of Sam’s practiced words flew out of his head. He clenched his teeth and did not lick his lips. He swore Dean knew exactly how far to swing his leg to make the towel move just that inch more. Water gleamed on the hard line of his breastbone. It would taste sweet as he licked it and followed the drop down to the edge of the towel. Dean wasn’t looking at the TV anymore. He had that stick pressed up against his lips—his damn perfect lips—and how the hell could he raise his eyebrows with those stitches in his forehead?   
  
Fuck him. He was the one who’d thrown Sam out of bed. He could sit there and smirk by himself. Sam wasn’t taking the bait to get shot down again. If Dean could ignore Sam’s hand on his dick, Sam could certainly ignore the way Dean’s mouth closed over the head of that—shit!  
  
“Since you didn’t leave me a towel mind tellin’ me if there’s at least a decent supply of hot water?”  
  
“Oh, sorry. Here.” Dean stood and reached—  
  
—Sam sucked in his cheeks. If he dropped the towel around his waist—  
  
—up and unwound his turban. “Should be fine. But you probably shouldn’t get your cheek wet. Need me to wash your hair or something?”  
  
He should fucking let him. He looked at his brother’s damned knowing eyes, bright with amusement in a face bruised and bandaged. “Yeah, thanks. That’d be great.”  
  
He pulled off his clothes on the way to the shower without looking back to see if Dean followed him.   
  
  
Dean pushed the bathroom door fully open and found a naked Sam bent over the tub, spinning the faucet. Dean could get horny if the wind changed, and Sam knew it, the manipulative little shit. Dean’s internal temperature shot up a few hundred degrees and the prickle of arousal he’d gotten from teasing Sam now electrified his skin. And the little bastard had probably been posing like that for the past five minutes, fiddling with the water. He was trying to make Dean give in.  
  
What he’d never understand was that Dean had already given in. He always had, and he always would. He hadn’t really had a choice. Since That Night he did whatever he had to do for Sam. Sometimes the thought of how much Sam was tied into his very existence left him shaking, desperate for some kind of violent outlet. And when Sam threatened to rip that connection away, it threw him every time. But just like he had tonight, Sam always came back. He couldn’t shake off Dean anymore than Dean could let Sam go. But the kid was sometimes slow to figure it out.   
  
And he’d want to talk about it when he did. As far as Dean was concerned, it was over. After their last conversation, he was not really up for another emotional slugfest, but there’d be no stopping Sam once he started. But in between now and that misery, there was gonna be a little fun. As Sam turned to face him, a badly feigned expression of surprise on his face, Dean saw that his earlier teasing hadn’t been wasted. Sam’s dick was making a slow rise toward his stomach. Just which of them was going to slam the other into the tiled wall first was the only question Dean still had.   
  
“I’m here to help, baby brother.” He pitched his voice to a depth he knew was anything but fraternal. “Why don’t you sit and lean across into the sink. That oughta work.”  
  
Sam complied, dropping onto the toilet lid and letting his legs drop apart as he flopped back onto the sink. Dean moved to stand between them and reached for a washcloth and the shampoo   
  
Sam never looked taller than when he was naked. Everything about his nudity emphasized his length. The long stretches of golden skin, tight over ribs and abs, the dark hair shading the path down from his navel. Even his fingers looked impossible long resting against his lean muscled thighs. Dean couldn’t help but think how perfectly those fingers could work him, and just like that his dick was testing the knot on the towel and he was that much closer to losing the game.   
  
“Here.” He handed Sam a washcloth.  
  
“I think I’m over worrying about you getting soap in my eyes, Dean.”   
  
“It’s for your cheek, you moron.” The bittersweet memories of how many times he’d washed Sammy’s hair made his voice a little rough.  
  
Sam pressed the cloth over his cheek and tipped his head back.   
  
“We’re gonna have to peroxide that again after we get done here. But I don’t want any of whatever shit’s in your hair hitting those wounds. We need to keep you pretty.”   
  
Smoke, blood, pieces of Dean, pieces of Dad, pieces of Sam, a little bit of darkness. He couldn’t believe how much crap had seemed to run off him as he stood in the shower.   
  
“You couldn’t handle the competition.” The arch of Sam’s neck made the words bounce over his Adam’s apple.   
  
“There is no competition, buddy. And a few more scars are only gonna make me better looking.” He poured water over Sam’s hair and drizzled a little shampoo.   
  
“You’re actually admitting that’s a possibility?”  
  
He ran his hands through his brother’s ridiculously soft hair and the towel grew more imperiled. The nubbly cloth was grating against his cock, but there was no fixing it right now. He concentrated on his task instead, savoring the silky slide of those strands through his fingers, and then scrubbed at his scalp.   
  
“Ow.”  
  
“Ya big baby.” Dean took up the cup again to rinse. Sam’s hair was so long wet it swirled right down to the porcelain bowl, but Dean could still see a pink tinge as he flushed away the suds. God, they’d been a mess. Even after the emergency room. He didn’t really feel like climbing back into what were now probably filthy sheets, but it was a little late for maid service.   
  
He could smell the antiseptic ointment on Sam’s cheek as he leaned in to check his work. He took the washcloth and cleaned the knot on Sam’s forehead, his undamaged cheek, the stubbly edge of his jaw. It was tough to see the dirt for all the bruises. He was going to kiss him in another second.   
  
“Okay, pretty boy.” He stepped back.   
  
Sam sat up. His dimples were fully functional. “There’s still a lot of me left to wash.”  
  
“I don’t remember offering that.”  
  
“Tanking on me?”  
  
Dean sighed and rolled his eyes at the tub, biting his tongue to keep the smirk off his face. Oh, Sam was in for it now.   
  
Dean dropped his towel and followed his brother into the tub.   
  
The soap smelled like every shower they’d ever taken together, brand new and completely familiar. Dean lathered up the washcloth and rubbed it over Sam’s chest. Sam’s lashes fluttered down onto his cheeks as Dean dragged the cloth across his nipples. Sam’s dick was pressing up into his stomach, darkening with every brush of the cloth. With another glance at Sam’s closed eyes, Dean let his tongue moisten his lips. Sam’s dick jerked.   
  
“I saw that.” Sam blinked.   
  
“What?”   
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Turn around.”   
  
Sam hesitated.   
  
“You washin’ your own back? We’re done?” Dean raised an eyebrow. And damn that was gonna hurt for a while.   
  
Sam turned, his head swiveling on his shoulders to look back at him   
  
“What?” Dean asked again.  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
Dean scrubbed Sam’s back, and then abandoned the washcloth to work on his legs with his hands. He wasn’t gonna last much longer, and neither was Sam if the tremble in his legs meant anything. Dean soaped his calves, his knees, and heard Sam pant as his hands dug into his thighs. Muscles jumped and vibrated beneath his fingers. He worked up a fresh lather and stroked the curve of his ass. Sam jumped and his hand slapped against the wall.   
  
He ran his fingers between Sam’s cheeks and Sam’s head fell back and back, until Dean could see him bite his lip. He stepped forward, and his cock rested in that slick space he’d just made. Sam’s whole body was shaking now, but he never turned, never said a word. Dean could get used to that.   
  
Another rinse, another lather and he brought his hand to Sam’s cock, just dragged it down the length, slid through the soft curls at the base, dipped down to cup his balls, then with the last bit of self-control he possessed, stepped back.   
  
“All clean.”  
  
Sam swayed for a minute then choked on a laugh. He smacked his hand against the tiled wall again. “Motherfuckingcocksuckingsonofabitch.”  
  
“Jeez, where’d you learn to swear like that, Sammy?”  
  
“Same place I learned everything else.” Sam turned and kissed him, pressed him against the cold wet tiles.   
  
Dean smiled against his brother’s mouth.   
  
“You bastard.” Sam flexed his hips into Dean’s, rubbing their cocks together.   
  
“Not thinking with your upstairs brain, too much, huh, Sammy?”  
  
“Shut up. If you cut me off now, I swear I’ll kill you.”  
  
And Dean had Sam with him again. Sam needing him almost as much as Dean needed Sam. He softened his lips and let Sam in.   
  
Sam’s mouth was as hot as the tiles were cold, tongue stroking, then driving, then fucking his mouth as he gasped and moaned. Dean wrapped an arm around his brother, pressing him tighter, wanting that rough possessive grind of their heated flesh.   
  
Sam grabbed the soap from Dean’s other hand and brought it down between them, turning their cocks as slick as sin. Dean layered his hand with Sam’s until there was a perfect slippery channel for their dicks to slide through. The rhythm came as easily as breathing, one up the other down, and every time the rims flicked against each other, their moans hit the back of each other's throat. It was gonna be over way too soon.   
  
Sam’s hips were jerking faster and Dean matched him. He couldn’t breathe anymore and had to release Sam’s mouth, his head dropping onto Sam’s shoulder as he gasped. His scalp was about to peel off and his balls felt like they were full of nitro.   
  
“Now, Sammy, c’mon.”  
  
Sam grunted and slammed him harder back against the tiles. Dean had his breath back and kissed him, ate at his mouth, bit at his lips, until he could feel the tension vibrate through Sam and he knew he was on the edge. He let the slick fingers of his free hand slide down between Sam’s ass cheeks until he pressed the tip of one inside him. Sam ripped his mouth free.   
  
“Fuck, Dean. I’m—”  
  
And Dean let himself go. His spine seized and his soul pumped out through his dick, everything liquid, wet, hot, slippery, and Sam was there with him, shooting against his belly. The contractions shook him forever as he pumped in their clasped hands. Sam's mouth dropped onto his shoulder, sucking and biting as he jerked through his own climax. Spots of red and purple were still dancing in front of his eyes when Sam gently untangled their hands. Dean’s shoulder throbbed.   
  
“God, Sammy, it’s not like I’m not damaged enough.” He tried to peer down at the hickey his brother had given him.   
  
Sam kissed it and gently tickled his softening dick. “Yeah, well I think you chewed my lip off.”  
  
Dean looked up. That sweet, dirty mouth was swollen, lips no longer pink but dark red.   
  
“Eh, I’m just helping you perfect that pout of yours.”  
  
When Dean stepped out of the bathroom, the a/c was a blast of artic air after the steam of the bathroom. He shivered and threw on shorts and a shirt and eyed the bed longingly. Nothing would be better than to dive under the blankets and let his sated, happy body sleep. Everything still tingled from that orgasm and if he was asleep, Sam couldn’t drag him into another conversation he didn’t want to have. But their freshly stitched wounds still needed to be tended, and he really was worried about infection setting in Sam’s cheek.   
  
He found the bag the doctor had given them and grabbed the peroxide from their own first aid kit.   
  
“Shit, it’s cold in here.” Sam stepped out and shook his wet head like a dog.   
  
“You son of a bitch.” Dean jumped as the icy water hit him.   
  
“Shouldn’t have used all the towels, man.”  
  
“You’re such a baby. Come on, we gotta rebandage your cheek.”  
  
Sam’s eyes were wary as he looked at the peroxide in Dean’s hands. But he slipped into his sweats and came over to sit beside his brother. Dean ripped the dressing off in one motion, offering a wink in apology. Sam rolled his eyes.   
  
He filled the peroxide cap and tipped it over the long gashes on Sam’s cheek. Sam hissed, but there were no bubbles that might indicate infection. Sam tried to shake off the sting, and Dean cuffed the side of his head. “Hold still, I need to look at it.” Dean studied the wound intently and tipped another capful over it.   
  
“Dean.”  
  
Shit, here it comes.  
  
“I didn’t mean it like that.”  
  
Making Sam explain what he didn’t mean like what would just prolong this. “Sure sounded like you meant every word, Sam.”  
  
“I’m not gonna just disappear, man.”  
  
Dean painted the antibiotic ointment on those vicious tears. “Hmph.”  
  
“I mean do you really want to go back to the way things were before I left? Me and Dad fighting all the time, you and me sneaking around to get each other off so we didn’t go crazy?”  
  
“It wasn’t that bad.” Though sometimes he’d thought his balls were gonna twist themselves off from the constant state of arousal around Sam those last few years. And there wasn’t a whole lotta privacy with three men in a hotel room.  
  
Sam held his gaze.   
  
“All right. Some of it was.”   
  
“So we’re good?”   
  
They still weren’t really back to good, but getting there. He knew in his gut Sam would always come back, but the in between times could be a bitch. He wondered how long Sam was going to take to realize that he could never put this life behind him, no matter what he tried. And how many times he was going to try, and how much it was gonna hurt Dean each time he did. Dean laid fresh gauze over the wound and taped it down. “We’re good.”   
  
  
But when Dean sprawled out on the bed closest to the door and pretended to be asleep as soon as Sam had redressed his wounds, Sam realized that Dean had been lying. He turned off the lights and watched Dean in the flickering light of the mute television, trying to figure out if he should climb into bed with him and make him tell him what was still wrong, or let it go, let it heal on its own.  
  
Indecision held him, and he sat on the other bed where Dean had left him and just watched him feign sleep. Stretched out, face relaxed, lips in that bow that every actress in Hollywood’d kill for, his brother was too fucking gorgeous. His t-shirt, the drape of sheet and blanket did nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders, the hard taper of his chest into hips. And moments like this were so rare, when Dean wasn’t cracking on him for something, or pouring through the papers to find something else to kill, or cleaning all his guns, moments when he could forget everything except Dean and how damned good just touching him could feel.  
  
When everything else fell away, Sam couldn’t imagine why he ever wanted to be anywhere else, with anyone else. There was no one quite like Dean, and no one knew him better. His body started to forget how hard he’d just been coming. His skin vibrated just from being in the same room with Dean. He didn’t know how much time passed before the a/c shut off, and the room was plunged into a heavy silence.  
  
And then Sam looked at the bandage across Dean’s forehead, on his arm and he just wanted to scream. Couldn’t Dean see how fucking crazy all this was? Trying to get themselves killed everyday just to hold back a little of the darkness that most people never even saw? He wanted Dean, but he didn’t want the darkness. Why should it have to be a package deal? What the hell made Dean so determined to live that kind of life?   
  
He remembered what the shapeshifter had told him about Dean’s issues. Everybody’s gonna leave me.  
  
“Damn. You gonna sleep or just brood all night?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“I can feel you looking at me. It’s freaky, dude.” Dean’s eyes were still closed, his face still expressionless.   
  
“You could come with me, you know.”  
  
“For fuck’s sake go to sleep, Sammy. This conversation is over.”  
  
“No, really.” Sam thought back on the rest of the shapeshifter’s rant. “You could go to college, too.”   
  
“I really don’t think I’m the Stanford type, Sam.”  
  
“There are dozens of colleges in the area, and don’t give me that I’m too dumb routine. Who built an EMF reader out of a walkman?”  
  
“Yeah, and I remember how impressed you were with that.”  
  
Sam blew his bangs out of his eyes. He was usually able to shift Dean’s moods. An apology, a bit of information about a job, a smile, a kiss. He shifted over to sit on Dean’s bed.   
  
“Unless you’re coming over here to blow me, I really do not want to do this, Sam.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
“Really?” Dean’s eyes finally opened, glittering in the light of the television. He sat up and tugged off his shirt.   
  
Sam pulled off his own clothes and lifted the sheet and blanket. “Look man, I’m sorry. It wasn’t about leaving you.”   
  
“Aw, fuck,” Dean collapsed back against the pillows and his leg shot out, kicking Sam in the thigh and knocking him onto the other bed. “Will you just stop talking about it?”   
  
“So what, a blow job’s just going to make everything the same again?”  
  
“Sure won’t hurt. You do give awesome head, Sammy.”  
  
Sam climbed back on the other bed and straddled his brother. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”  
  
Dean made no attempt to throw him off. “You gonna use that mouth for something else or am I going back to sleep?”  
  
He bent down and kissed Dean, kissed the gauze across his forehead, tongued the line of his jaw.   
  
“Finally.”  
  
“Now who won’t shut up?” Sam pressed against Dean’s mouth, his tongue working across the seam of those outrageous lips. Just kissing them made him think of how good they felt on his own cock. But he was going to focus on Dean. If Dean didn’t want to hear it, he was going to apologize with his mouth, his tongue, his body. Dean’s tongue swept out, swept him into a kiss that had him rocking his hips against his brother’s as the friction of tongues and mouths made his whole body start zinging with the deep pulse of renewed arousal. It made him want to grind, slow and deep until they were both out of their minds.   
  
Dean sucked on his lower lip, and it burned from the earlier biting, a burn that pumped even more blood to his cock. He pulled back and worked his own teeth at the tender spot under Dean’s ear.   
  
“Dude, I’ve got enough bruises for now.” But Dean’s gasp and the arch of his neck into the bite made his complaint a total lie.   
  
“But you like it.”  
  
“Well, yeah.”  
  
Sam licked the skin over Dean’s breastbone, the fresh clean taste of his skin like a drink of water after the spicy taste of Dean’s mouth. He felt Dean shift, and looked up to see him tuck his arms under his head, that infuriating fucking smirk on his lips.   
  
Sam flicked his nipples hard and the smirk disappeared.   
  
“Easy, Sammy.”  
  
“You wanna drive?”   
  
Dean appeared to consider it for a minute. “Nah. I’m good.”  
  
Sam circled Dean’s navel with his tongue while he worked Dean’s shorts off his hips. Dean lifted his hips to help, but that was about it. Sam couldn’t tell if his languor was another deliberate attempt to rile him or genuine relaxation. He savored the taste of his brother’s skin on his tongue, lapping down the path of satiny hair. The familiar scent made his own cock jump. And suddenly he couldn’t wait to get his mouth on him, to hear that sound Dean made when he took him all the way to the back of his throat.   
  
He looked up along Dean’s torso as he settled himself between his legs, and Dean winked at him.   
  
“What?” he asked suspiciously.   
  
“Nothin’. Just enjoying the view. Come on and put that sweet pout to good use.”  
  
“If I do will you finally listen to me?”   
  
Dean sat up, winced, and then flopped back down, his hands covering his face. “For the love of God, Sam, why can’t you just let it go? You gonna hold my fuckin’ dick hostage over this?”  
  
Sam licked his lips. Sometimes he really wished his brain would just shut off. “No.”   
  
“Another fucking word about it and I swear I will flip you over and fuck you until the only words you can remember are ‘Dean’ and ‘Harder.’ ”  
  
He should have slammed the heel of his hand into his balls for that, but he couldn’t deny the way his cock pulsed as he thought of Dean carrying out his threat. “Maybe later.” He settled for pinching his dickheaded brother’s thigh.   
  
“Still wanna do this?”  
  
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I do.”   
  
Dean let his legs drop open wide and smirked. Sam slipped his hands beneath Dean’s ass and lifted him onto his thighs. He was going to wipe that smirk off his brother’s face permanently.   
  
Dean had been hanging on the hard edge of arousal since Sam had dropped his sweats and climbed on the bed with him. He hadn’t wanted to, uh, raise the mast until he was sure Sammy wasn’t going to argue them into another fight. With Sam’s inability to give up on winning an argument he would have made a hell of a lawyer. Dean knew that Sam looked at Dean’s avoiding this discussion as just another argument to win.   
  
Now, at last, it seemed Sam was going to get down to busin-ahh—just the heat of Sam’s breath had him fuck all hard in half a second. Sam started licking him in long strokes like he was his favorite ice cream on a hot day and then he pulled the head in his mouth, and it was so hot and so wet and Sam’s tongue was moving on him flicking, stroking, hard, flat soft, fast. And his lips--tight and wet and soft and how the hell did he know just how and what to lick or suck before Dean even did. Dean wondered with one of the last two brain cells he had left if that was because Sam was psychic before he remembered Sam had always been this good but maybe he’d always been psychic and then oh, god, oh god, he couldn’t think of anything but now, suck harder, and Sam did.  
  
Dean was moving, hips rocking on Sam’s thighs. Sam released him and he whimpered, left cold and so fucking close. Sam tongued his balls, licked that tight patch of skin below them, his hand a welcome heat on Dean’s aching cock and Dean was trying not to grab his head and force it back down where he needed it and Sam’s tongue kept moving lower and--  
  
“Jesus, Sammy, you don’t hafta, oh fuck.”  
  
And Dean could not have stopped him, could not have moved if every demon in hell showed up at their door that moment.   
  
Sam’s tongue ran over and around that tight, tight ring of muscle and Dean’s whole body was going to burst into flames and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fucking see. Sam’s hand twisted as it stroked his cock. Was he really making that sound?   
  
And Sam’s tongue wiggled into him and he was gone. Hips bucking out of control. Coming. Shooting. Again and again. He swore he hit the fucking ceiling with it. And it just kept jerking out of him. Until he was just empty. Boneless and empty and just about fucking dead.   
  
Sam crawled up and tucked his head under Dean’s shoulder. Through the blissed out numbness, Dean could feel Sam’s dick press against his hip, but he was just too damn beat to do anything about it then. His lungs were still heaving enough to lift even Sam’s fat head up and down on his chest.  
  
Dean thought they were going to drift off like that, and it was so much better than the way the last few days had gone, so, of course, it was too damned good to be true ’cause Sam had to bring all that shit up again.   
  
“I don’t really want to leave you, Dean.”  
  
“So don’t.” Irritation started to chase away all those last pleasant shudders running through his body.  
  
“But I want to leave this.” His brother reached up and touched the bandage across his forehead.  
  
“That is me, Sammy.” And it’s you, too. But he kept that last to himself.   
  
“I don’t want to watch you die.”  
  
“I don’t want to see you die, either.” All that nice, post-orgasm lethargy was gone now. And Dean was just tired of it all. Tired of fighting, tired of trying to make Sam understand. He tugged on Sam’s chin so that their eyes met, dark and glittering in the blue television light. “Go do what you gotta do, Sammy. Go. Be a person. Be the kind of person who doesn’t fuck his brother and who doesn’t have to lay a salt line around his bed. Go be a person who doesn’t see things before they happen and who can't move shit with his mind.”  
  
It hurt him, too, when it came. Sam’s eyes closed and he made the same sound he had when the daeva’s claws had ripped into his cheek, a sound of pain so deep it could only come out as a choking moan.   
  
“It’s never going to be over for me either, is it?” He dropped his head back onto Dean’s shoulder.   
  
“No, Sammy,” he said as gently as he could.   
  
“It’s not fucking fair.”  
  
“No, it isn’t.” He wrapped an arm around him.  
  
And they just lay there with their hearts pounding against each other in the silent room.  
  
It might have been an hour, it might have been a minute, but then Sam made another one of those choking gasps. “I need you.”  
  
Dean pulled him closer.   
  
“Need you.” Sam was grinding his cock in the crease of Dean’s thigh. Dean couldn’t even crack on him for the chick-flickness of it. He knew how much he had wished Sam would have given him something, anything when he was busy ripping Dean’s dream away.   
  
“I need to get closer.” Sam murmured in his ear. “I need to feel . . . Please.” And Sam was rubbing his dick in the sticky come on Dean’s stomach, and Dean reached down to help him coat himself with as much of the slick stuff as he could. Sam’s fingers slid over his, and together they made him ready.   
  
Sam shifted down, testing Dean with a finger. He was so relaxed he didn’t really need much prep, and Sam eased into him after only a second’s hesitation. Dean’s body enveloped all of Sam’s cock in one long slow thrust.   
  
“Close enough?” he panted, but couldn’t make the tone bite.   
  
“No.” Sam kissed him, rocking them together, barely moving inside of him.   
  
Dean tasted his own musk on Sam’s tongue as Sam stroked inside him with his tongue and dick. The taste made his head swim, or maybe that was just that Sam was in him at both ends and that just melted his brain. He was still so spent he couldn’t believe it when the pressure started to build in his hips and ass again. He hadn’t gotten hard three times in a night since he was nineteen. His balls ached with it, but that didn’t stop the pulse of blood through his dick.   
  
Sam lifted himself on his arms, arching over him, thrusts going deeper, harder, and then he hit that amazing bundle of nerves inside him, the one he’d been so surprised to find existed after all these years, and Dean’s dick was half hard again, a stabbing pressure like a chokehold around the base.   
  
Dean bit his lower lip and watched the emotions and sensations ripple across Sam’s face. He wasn’t sure which would kill him first, another orgasm or that haunted look in his brother’s eyes. Sam churned his hips, lighting up Dean’s nerves, stretching all those muscles deep inside him.   
  
“It’s okay, Sammy.” He rested his hands on his brother’s hips.  
  
Sam’s arms were trembling, a red flush spreading down his throat and chest. His balls slapped against Dean’s ass as he worked his hips harder.   
  
“It’s all right,” he said again.  
  
“Dean.”   
  
God, that voice would kill him. Deep and desperate, he could feel it echo through his bones.   
  
Dean tightened his ass around Sam’s cock, trying to hold him in to squeeze the orgasm from him that Sam so desperately needed.   
  
And his muscles were out of his control as his body shuddered again, pulsing with something not quite pleasure, not quite pain.   
  
Sam’s head went back, and Dean could see every muscle in his neck as Sam erupted inside him, stiff and jerking. The flood of heat inside him made him moan and yank Sam back down against him. At that moment he needed this connection as much as Sam did. Need their bodies pressed together, lips, tongues, chests, bellies.  
  
They were both shaking when Sam eased out of him and drew the blankets over both of them. The air was full of sex and all that spent tension, heavy and hard to breath.   
  
“As soon as I remember how to move, we’re moving to the other bed, ’cause this one is seriously funky now.”  
  
Sam grunted against his cheek.   
  
He managed to get his hand up to stroke his brother’s hair.   
  
“Don’t do that again.” Sam’s voice was stern.   
  
“What? Make you come ‘till we almost pass out?”  
  
“Feel sorry for me.”   
  
“Think you’ve got that covered all by yourself, kiddo.”  
  
Sam huffed. "Bite me."  
  
Silence ticked over them again, and Dean had just about drifted to fall asleep, wet spot be damned, when Sam’s whisper tickled his ear. “We’ve still gotta talk about Dad.”  
  
“Go to sleep, Sammy.”   
  
But he held him until he did, and then whispered against his temple, “I’m never gonna know how to let you go, Sammy.”  
 


End file.
